A Boy, A Demon & A Castle
by Xlerons
Summary: "Magic you say? I find that hard to believe." "Tell that to Howl's castle."


**A Boy, A Demon & A Castle**

Disclaimer:

Game of Thrones is owned by George R.R. Martin

Howl's Moving Castle is owned by Diana Wynne Jones & Studio Ghibli

* * *

 _ **Chapter**_ _ **I - The Royals & The Wizard**_

 _Thirty years he'd plowed the oceans, winds and waves his closest friends. Fickle companions they were, safe for few, perilous to all, gifting and striping fortunes at will, as sure as their tides. He'd come far for a man of his birth, Flea Bottom days now long past, a knighthood and lands now bound to his name. His sons' future would be their own to decide. At four fingers short, and only the tips at that, Davos thought the price trivial, their sacrifice fair. The hollers of seamen played across the deck._

 _They weren't too far off from Maidenpool, perhaps an hour's journey at most, Dragonstone's supplies of both foodstuffs and goods obligating their renewed purchase. The Riverland's port, while a good stretch further than the nearer choice of King's Landing, proved the more enticing of the two, the latter's merchants far more demanding in their prices. Better an extra day's travel than for higher costs and stale loaves, the better deal always that nearest to the original source. The Bay of Crabs, nonetheless, was not the Blackwater; its bottom failed to run deep. While the currents flowed weakly, danger remained, lookouts posted in alert for any reefs or rocks ascending from the shallows._

 _The coast beyond stood shrouded in a heavy mist, cool breezes of the north mixing with those warmed by the south, forming dense, low hanging clouds. Moving with the waters as if a copy of the surf, the haze occasionally split, gaps exposing the shore, clear and beautiful. These windows to yonder did not last long, shorelines fading into the hinterland as the gloom would once more set in, vapored grey walls encircling the vessel, blocking its occupants' sight. It was by chance that he saw it, upon the edge of his vision, passing in the open._

 _He'd seen many things while at sea, from Lysene pirates to harrowing tempests and even a kraken he'd once thought, each an event unlike the other, an addition to the saga of his life. A glimpse of a dragon and there would be little else that could compare, not in known world at least. Shireen surely wouldn't mind a telling of that particular tale, as considerable was her passion for the bygone kings of the skies, should he ever be so lucky. Still, at but a name's day away from fifty, and with the accompanying baggage of experience to boot, what Davos observed through his Myrish far eye left him positively bewildered._

" _Captain, what are your orders?" A sailor, Tremond was his name, asked. Tanned and unshaven, the man didn't bother to regard the knight in question, instead peering off towards the horizon, tracking the unimaginable figure in amazement. He was not the only one, by any means, to do so, the vast majority of the crew leaning over the ship's wooden rails or hanging from its port side shrouds, the lot of them as equally mesmerized as the first. Davos could not blame them. It was solely after it vanished behind the brume that he spoke._

" _Unfurl the sails and reverse course, we make way for Dragonstone!" He shouted, jolting the men back to their posts, their reactions albeit laggard and reluctant. The island's provisions would have to await another day, Lord Stannis needed to be notified immediately._

 _Davos never believed himself a devout man, but who but the Gods could play such tricks? Castles, no matter how strange, did not move._

* * *

Tyrion knew the Riverlands weren't, climate wise, the most pleasant of the Seven Kingdoms, its lands often subject to drenching rains and frequent storms, poor weather dominating its rare days of sunlight. Truth be told, he'd prepared for such eventualities, having packed a variety of cloaks, coats and anoraks among his baggage, wary of what elements he would need to confront as the convoy marched its way farther up along Westeros, a month's ride to reach the Northern capital of Winterfell, seat of House Stark. Quite frankly, although the youngest Lannister had initially recognized that trip was unlikely to be one without issue nor challenge, as demonstrated by his sister's insistence on traveling by a certain constantly breaking down carriage, he thought it had, so far, gone by rather well. The unfortunate position in which both he and his fellow travelers currently found themselves, neither the first nor the last, was but one of the numerous lows they would have to endure. Yet, he had to admit that, notwithstanding, their circumstance was a bit more extreme than anticipated. As simple as it was in hindsight, no one had told him anything in reference to fog.

So thick was the soup in which the dwarf and royal cortege trekked that viewing past the horse to his front became next to impossible, the many naturally occurring and minor hazards of the road rendered virtually invisible to all but those with the sharpest of eyes. Already two steeds had cracked their hooves, their riders forced to dismount to prevent further damage. The dear King Robert, composed as he was, flew into a fit of vividly colored language as his queen's carriage broke yet another wheel, courtesy of a hidden sinkhole, bringing the entire procession to a halt. More worrisome than these troubles, however, was the rumbling sound echoing throughout the area.

The noise, a distinct mixture of groans, hisses and growls, had grown steadily louder in the past hour, winding nearer as they advanced. Drawing apprehension from the Red Cloaks and Kingsguards, the soldiers and knights unable to determine its meaning, Ser Barristan had, with his liege's permission, ventured off leading part of the vanguard, becoming dim wisps as they disappeared. That had been but moments ago. Already the gallop of approaching hooves made themselves heard, vociferous metal shrieking in the background.

"It seems that Ser Barristan has found his prey." Spoke his brother to his right, a hand now curled around the hilt of his sword. Despite the levity in his voice, Jaime's body said otherwise.

"I do wonder what it could be. Quite the racket it makes, yes?" Tyrion replied in response. If the elder sibling was about to quip back, he was cut off before he could, shouts adding to the rising cacophony.

"Retreat! Retreat! To his Grace and retreat!" Came the cries of the Kingsguards' Lord Commander, rushing forward as he abruptly materialized, sword in hand and reigns in the other, comrades the same as they surrounded their monarch and his family. A shadow plunged them into shade.

Concealed by the tall hills bordering the mountains of the Vale, a form emerged to the caravan's front, parting the mist like a ship cleaved the waves. The daylight, now given free rule, shone down on the immense structure, bathing it in light and revealing it for all to witness.

A fortress, as wide and tall as the Red Keep's dungeon, stood before him, Tyrion's half-man neck aching in pain as he bent it backwards, searching for its peak. Stone and brick, iron and steel, tile and wood covered its exterior, a mishmash of windows, ledges, outcrops and balconies jutting from the walls, incoherent and, at a glance, assembled at random. Massive chimneys belched ashen smoke at the back in endless streams, wobbling as if insecure and risking collapse, a mere four out of the countless lesser others protruding from the roves. Grand domes with bizarre tubes, side by side, two on each three, extended from battlements at the front, the largest of them partially settled upon the other two. Houses, smallfolks' cottages and merchants' homes alike, sat and hung here and there across its surface, old and new. A spire, complete with crow's nest, speared into the heavens above, wires and ropes dangling from nearby cranes. More components and constructs bulged from the inside, churning gears and (decorative?) wings adding yet more to the absurd edifice. Steam, gushing from seemingly everywhere, puffed out into the sky, white and boiling. Most noticeable was the face the entire building sported, bearing that of a hideous toad, teeth and tongue included. He would have taken more time to observe the oddly misshapen dwelling if not for the fact that the castle _moved_. Speaking of which…

An enormous, chicken like leg descended to Tyrion's left, rusted brown appendage digging into the earth. He held on tightly to his stallion, dearly attempting to not be thrown off as it bucked, panicked by the recently arrived being. Many of his colleagues dealt with the same, though Jaime's courser, more thoroughly trained, stayed relatively calm. One especially unfortunate fellow ended up in the mud unconscious, having slipped off his saddle and wildly trampled in reward. Those behind scrambled off of the road, fleeing for their lives. His sister's husband, to the extreme ire of his bodyguards, however, did not, whether out of foolishness, interest or pride the Lannister couldn't say. Maybe the man was simply drunk again, the culprit all the wine he drank on the road; not that he was one to criticize such a marvelous habit.

Raven locks whipping about from a gust of air and sucking in his not inconsiderable gut, Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, bellowed at his colossal foe.

" **STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"**

Tyrion was incapable of not helping himself but imagine the ballads sung of the king crushed by the castle, the man's yell going down in the annals as his last. Of course, that idea imploded when, against all rational sensibility and to his genuine disbelief, said stronghold came to a stop, feet halting in its jaunt, the screech of grinding plates shrilling out mightily enough to hurt his ears. Slowly, lazily, the building sunk down onto the ground, relaxed, its mouth exhaling a sigh as segments clanged and shifted into place.

The grin on the King's face reminded him of that of a man's after his first lay with a woman; one far too pleased with themselves. Robert slapped a meaty palm onto the back of Ser Barristan's breast plate, giggling as he did, his arm extended in reference to the keep, speaking, "Now what do you say to that, eh?" The Baratheon then promptly passed out, Lord Commander not quick enough to prevent him from tumbling totally undignified into the mud.

The aged paladin, for his part, looked more exhausted than ever.

* * *

The door they found was much like the rest of the hold-fast, worn and nondescript, projecting from its belly. Two hinges ran along its uppermost and lower halves, a small, curved framed window situated above. A thin stone porch extended outward, the masonry upon which the entryway reposed, with twin twisted iron rails to the sides. A lantern swayed, suspended from a hook, soft rays gleaming in spite of the sun's return. No candle stood cradled within, an alternatively illuminated crystal bulb of amber. Barristan attributed the mystery as either magic or the Gods' work, in view of how he had nothing on hand to provide a reasonable explanation, especially when considering how fantastical a situation he found himself in. Peeking back to the men at his rear, he nodded, signaling his readiness. He knocked firmly.

"In the name of his Grace King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, I request that you show yourself." He exclaimed, elder knight deliberate in his choice of words. King his liege may have been, and absolute his commands, but whoever, or whatever, claimed mastery of this edifice was one worthy of caution. No one answered. Again he knocked. Again he met silence. Ser Barristan, though in no way a coward, did not wish to force his way in, if, that is, he even could. As he prepared for a third, and final, try, a voice came from the entrance's other side.

"Howl, there are people at the door." Was the outcry, a man's if he went by its pitch.

"Who's in there?" Barked Ser Meryn, his bearded features pressed into a menacing scowl. Barristan shot him a disapproving frown in response, expeditiously hushing him.

"Howl, get out of bed and down here, I can't open the door by my own. They don't seem happy you know." The man called out once more.

"What is it Calcifer?" Went another voice, this one much lighter and more youthful, a yawn permeating the speech halfway. A boy perhaps? He supposed that, as long as he was let in, he wouldn't mind. Conceivably the man was unable to grant them entry, a cripple maybe?

"What have you been doing up there? I've been calling you down since this morning and now we've got visitors. Howl? Howl? Are you listening to me?" The man spoke.

The child didn't bother to answer, instead asking, "What is it they want Calcifer?"

The father, or uncle, he guessed, responded in obvious exasperation. "They're talking about a King of some sort and want to come in, and where did you send us anyways? If Madame Suliman catches wind of this she's not going to let you off easily. And then what'll happen me, who knows what types of things she'll do to me?" The last phrase held a solid dose of hysteria. He would have to probe as to whom this Suliman woman was.

He heard a gait coming nearer, rhythmic footsteps creaking off floorboards and followed closely by the unlatching of a lock. The door opened.

Head reaching a tad beneath his shoulders, the boy Ser Barristan faced was probably in his barely twelfth or thirteenth name day, a mop of azure shaded black hair covering his head. Two pairs of blue eyes bore into one another, neither individual deigning to speak.

"Can I help you?" Asked Howl.

Nobody commented on the fact that their host was still in a nightgown.

* * *

Jaime stared at the entity in the fireplace, spacious hearth in which it lodged drowning in the uncleared ashes of dozens of fires. Then again, considering what its occupant actually was, he shouldn't have been surprised.

"So you're a demon are you?" He asked the living blaze, Calcifer was its name. The magical being opened an eye wider than the other, arms of flame reaching for a log to burn as it did.

"Yeah, what about it?" Said demon answered, ostensibly aware of where the conversation was headed.

Jaime smirked as he spoke. "I'm sorry if this offends you, it's just that I expected demons to be a touch more frightening."

Calcifer's expression twisted into one of indignation at the thinly veiled insult. "Why you…" He began, none too pleased.

"I really don't think it's a good idea to aggravate someone of his kind dear brother. You wouldn't want to end up roasted to a crisp, now would you?" Interrupted Tyrion, popping in from outside and cutting off anything the fire spirit was primed to declare. After a swift moment of observation and judging of his newfound setting, he commented, "Huh. It's smaller on the inside."

True to his analysis, the spotless structure's indoors were, in fact, quite tiny. Other than the somewhat large room they stood in, and even then its scope was equivalent to only one of the Red Keep's master suites, there was nothing more than a dual set of stairs, one leading to the few cabins' above and the other to the exit below. Jaime had thought it perfectly ludicrous, going so far as to checking the walls for the secret passageways that, logically, would uncover the other existing apartments, but to no avail. His theory had fallen flat when, upon investigating an upstairs window, his head had popped out to reveal itself so high that those underneath looked the size of ants, killing his suspicions. Even so, after such a vista from the exterior, the interior acted in a unanimously underwhelming fashion, an utter letdown. Why own a castle, a moving one at that, if not to use it to its full potential? Of course, Tyrion, the smart man that he was, put forth the unspoken question for him.

"Why is it that you live in such a small home?" Inquired the dwarf.

"It's because it's all the space that I need." Was the answer.

Jaime tore his gaze away from Calcifer to focus on the upper stairway, the chateau's second resident and official ruler, Howl, arriving from his quarters, this time properly dressed. Honestly, as well made the bed clothes he'd first appeared in, who invited in knights, let alone a king, without bothering to change? On the other hand, if he too were a young wizard then he too wouldn't have feasibly cared either. Thought, to be honest, he hadn't actually seen said warlock perform any otherworldly deeds so far, so perhaps only the castle was enchanted? He would find out soon enough, at any rate.

Reaching their level at the stairs' zenith, Howl continued, "Don't you like it here? I've always found it rather cozy."

Jaime supposed that was an accurate description of the abode overall. Several samples of well carved and arranged furniture lied around the den, a table here and a shelf there, complete with cupboards, hooks and chairs. A particularly well stuffed sofa sat pressed against the chimney's opposite wall, whom itself was quite nice, dyed a healthy brown from its leather wrappings. The chamber was nothing remarkable yet not plain, a careful balance amid the two, similar to an expensive inn. It made for some quite boring decor. He voiced his thoughts.

"It's safe to say that the two of us grew up in much wealthier surroundings than what you have here." He said.

Howl draped himself across the aforementioned couch, resting on his side as he listened to him. "Would you prefer something with more shine? Seeing how I'm going to have to speak with a king and all, I might as well make the design more fit for one. Not to mention all the guests I'll probably need to deal with." The last portion came out more muttered than the rest, a trace bitter too. Both Jaime and Tyrion caught it however, sly smiles plastering their faces, amused at their acquaintance's reluctance.

"Dear King Robert is likely to wake soon, how is it that you plan to renovate in such a short span of time?" Quizzed Tyrion, brow raised.

Howl didn't respond, instead turning towards his traveling companion, pondering, "Do you think you can manage Calcifer?"

The fire grumbled, apparently irked. "You're the one who needs to manage." It griped.

Howl undeniably took the complaint for a yes, darting back up the stairs to wherever. He returned a minute later, a stick of chalk in one hand and light wheel wagon hefted in the other, bleached sand topping the cart. Putting the chalk to a windowsill and not bothering to excuse himself, he then whizzed by both the knight and lord.

"Make sure to make the layout big enough this time, I don't want a mess like the last try you hear me." Cried out the hearth bound fallen star. Jaime briefly wondered what that statement referred to, brushing it off as he started following the owner out.

Except that Howl had never made it that far, a certain blonde haired queen in his path.

* * *

Cersei eyed the child who'd bumped into her, green orbs sweeping over his figure, judging him in a flash.

"So you are the sorcerer, is that correct?" She challenged, silken voice hiding an underlay of venom. Apparently the boy realized the inherent hostility it was leaking.

"Yes, and you are?" He appealed, his face a grimace. She smiled a most gorgeous smile.

"I am the Queen." She stated, pride filling her voice.

He gave a slight bow of his head, only to then move aside as he left the castle, speaking as he went, "And my name is Howl, now we've met your majesty."

If it were not for the foreign honorific in his sentence she would have felt slighted. Magician or not he would have to learn proper respect.

"A very cordial first impression, wouldn't you say?" Her brother spoke, little monster he was.

"Quite drab the shack he has, doesn't he?" She said, running a hand along the spine of a fallen book, feeling its edge. Nothing obligated her reciprocating to Tyrion.

"Yes, we had just addressed that before you decided to treat us with your presence." Jaime quipped in response. She smiled anew, less genuinely this time. One jester in her family was quite enough, two were unbearable.

"And, what of it?" She replied.

"I would suggest you spare a peek outdoors." Tyrion answered.

Turning her head in the direction of the paltry entrance through which she'd crossed, Cersei saw as a group formed, various guards, servants and minor lords paying close attention to the workings of the conjurer in rooted curiosity, her oaf of a husband, having evidently risen from his drunken stupor, included among their number.

"What blasted thing are you doing with that boy?" Blared the King.

"Home renovations." She heard Howl assert.

The boy reentered his household, grabbing a shard of white rock and making for the center of the room, again tilting his head in tribute to her station before lowering himself to the parquet as he passed, squatting. Cersei, much like the crowd, examined his actions, so intrigued they were that none questioned the unknown spell's plausible danger.

Making brisk, rapid strokes of his arm, Howl drew a series of symbols, squiggles and lines, differing from those he'd previously painted below. As he lifted himself back up, inspecting his work, Howl dropped the chalk, uncaring, walking then to Calcifer.

"I think that should do it, don't you?" He asked the demon.

"Now don't get to cocky Howl, I don't want to have to clean up another one of your messes, it's horrible I tell you." Chided the fire.

The eldest Lannister stood in momentary astonishment as she watched the animate, conscious flames flicker for the first time, in equal measures awe and dread. The memories and lies of a decrepit old frog surfaced to the shallow recesses of her mind, causing her to pale. What sordid trap had she gotten herself involved?

The magi gripped a small trowel pending to the fireplace's side, easing its end under the charred timber until scooping up the appointed passenger. She swore she caught something beating within.

"Now be gentle with me, don't let me fall." Calcifer whimpered.

The boy then moved onto his sketch, standing upright whilst glancing towards the sibling trio. "You might want to get on the table," Howl warned, "this could get rough."

Cersei, despite her desire to chastise the diviner for his relapse in etiquette, moved as Jaime gently took her arm, guiding her to the oaken piece. Tyrion, for his part, favored a low lying stool, seating himself upon its top. Their host nodded in satisfaction, concentrating. A faint gust engulfed the alcove, the door suddenly slamming shut, obstructing the proceeding's scrutiny by the persons who'd crammed next to it, Robert and his Kingsguard at the front having their noses caved in.

The queen reflexively grabbed onto her brother's arm as Calcifer transformed, the relatively innocent looking fire violently erupting to a monstrous size as he roared, traditionally peaceful orange glow madly veering harsh violet. The circle Howl had drawn radiated blue, shimmering bright. Had she not feared for her life, and should they not have begun to float, she would have relished the act of the half-man tipping over in shock, arms flailing as he attempted to regain his balance.

Air humming with power, Cersei gawked as the estate changed before her very eyes. Beams upon the ceiling morphed and swelled, somber colors fading as wood mutated to marble stone. The walls, once nothing but simple plaster, stretched in height, brick and mortar taking their place. Arches, gates and doorways formed, appearing on all sides but that of the exit, hallways spanning deeply throughout. The staircase, just wide enough for two, split in half, its parts sprouting new flights about the foyer, steps slithering and coiling as they rose into the air, gilded brass spirals. Chandeliers swung from a newly shaped vault, gold and glittering. Tapestries unfolded across the area, a blend of sigils and flags, green, yellow and blue, fluttering in the fragile gale. Glass paned windows bridged the divide between the inside and out. Additional furnishings manifested from nowhere, engraved with silver and exquisitely lacquered, with divans, ottomans and curtains alike. The whole affair transpired in but a few fleeting seconds, so ephemeral it could have been said to never have happened. The wind and lights gradually died down, the spectators released.

A profound stillness inundated the expanse.

"Well I'm not complaining." Spoke a re-shrunken Calcifer.

Jaime and she lingered silent.

Tyrion, on his part, laughed in joy, clapping his hands as he shook.

* * *

Word Count: 4,165

* * *

Author's Notes:

In a crapsack world filled with rape, arson, murder and war, don't you think there should be a tad bit more _good_ magic rather than none, if only a little? Well I did. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… Howl's Moving Castle in Westeros!


End file.
